Page 7 of Peril in Piccadilly
“Why would he do that?” I asked, but it was overshadowed by Crispin’s louder outburst of, “Someone did that?”
“No,” I said. “No one did that.”
“Of course someone did do,” Christopher answered, indicating my knees. “Otherwise you wouldn’t look like you do.”
I shook my head. “You’re making it sound as if it were deliberate, and it wasn’t.”
“How do you know that it wasn’t?”
Well, I didn’t know that, of course. But at the same time, there was no reason to think it had been anything but an accident. There was certainly no reason to think it had been aimed at me in particular if it had been deliberate, and least of all any reason to suspect that Wolfgang had been behind it.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “First of all, he isn’t mad. He’d have to be mad to try to murder me simply because I turned down his proposal of marriage.”
Crispin made a sort of crowing sound, and I added, with a severe look at him, “Not that I did do. I left the door wide open for him to contact me again. He had no reason to want to get rid of me.”
Crispin looked truculent. “He certainly didn’t look pleased when he left.”
“Did he look displeased enough to commit murder?” Christopher wanted to know, and Crispin shrugged.
“How am I supposed to know the answer to that, old bean?”
“We’ve met our share of murderers,” Christopher pointed out, which was certainly true.
“And did you suspect any of them before the fact?”
I hadn’t. Or rather, I hadn’t suspected any of the guilty parties more than the non-guilty. I had suspected everyone equally, you might say, whether they’d turned out to be guilty or not. I had, in fact, been convinced of Crispin’s guilt in at least one case. But in none of them had I done a particularly good job of figuring out whodunit before the denouement at the end.
“Wolfgang had no reason to want to murder me,” I reiterated. “Normal people don’t go around killing other people over hurt feelings.”
His feelings were probably not even all that hurt. He liked me, yes. Admired me, according to what he had said during the original proposal. We got on well enough. I was young and respectable and reasonably attractive, and I could provide him with the heir and spare he no doubt required for theSchlossand the other entailments. But he had never professed love, or even deep devotion. His proposal of marriage had come across more as an offer for a friendly business partnership than anything else.
And that was perhaps the biggest reason why I couldn’t consider going to Germany with him. Leave out the fact that I wasn’t in love with him: had he at least been head over heels for me, I might have considered it. But I’m not upper-class enough to consider marriage solely in the light of a business transaction. My mother had left England and everything she knew to live with my commoner father in a flat on the Continent. How could I make that same trip for the promise of aSchlossand a comfortable lifestyle?
“You never know what might be going through someone else’s head,” Christopher admonished, and I turned to Crispin.
“Tell the truth, St George. Did he appear homicidal when he left?”
“I’m not certain that I would recognize homicidal if I saw it,” Crispin demurred, and Christopher chuckled.
“Certainly you would, old chap. You’ve seen it in Pippa’s eyes often enough.”
There was no denying that. I had often been possessed of an overriding desire to strangle St George. Although I had never acted on it, so how homicidal was I, really?
“In that case I wouldn’t say so, no,” Crispin said. “He seemed fairly composed. More so than Philippa. She tore out of there like the hounds of hell were on her heels.”
“Hyperbole,” I said sourly.
He lifted a shoulder. “He left money for the bill and then strode out. It couldn’t have been more than a minute later. Although he didn’t appear to be chasing after you, if that’s what you hoped for.”
“I didn’t hope for anything,” I said. “Christopher was the one who suggested that Wolfgang would pitch me down the stairs to the underground because I hurt his feelings. Which I didn’t do. IfIhad to pick a likely culprit?—”
He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. You thinkIdid it.”
“You did threaten to shove me down a staircase once.”
His upper lip curled. “Did not!”
“Did so. It was at Sutherland Hall in April. Don’t you remember? Aunt Roz asked you to escort me downstairs, and you said I’d better be polite to you, or your hand might slip.”
